That's what you told me
by gracedUSA
Summary: When a beloved asset gets hurt Neal has to face the danger lurking just beneath the surface in the White Collar division. Obviously don't any of the characters - set at any point post Sara and pre Rebecca


It didn't matter that Neal didn't like guns.

That wasn't public knowledge.

Which mean they were often used against him.

And anyone who got too close.

She hadn't gotten involved on purpose. She was an MBA candidate at Columbia, trying to forge a life out of the money a mobster father had left when he was arrested. She wanted to go into financial consulting. She ended up working for the FBI, sort of.

She ended up working for Moz.

Peter sent Neal to find someone with intimate knowledge of the Wall Street firms to help on a case. The plan was to set them up as an asset selling information – then take down the ring that had been buying it.

How Moz found out about the opening wasn't common knowledge. How he met Etta wasn't common knowledge either. But when the slim, attractive girl showed up at Neal's apartment for her new "consulting" job he wasn't about to say no.

Neal told Peter what he needed to know. She wasn't on the official records but she was on the White Collar Division's radar.

And now she was lying semi-conscious on the banks of the Hudson. When she'd gone to fence the information their target had decided he didn't want to pay. A quick blow across the forehead with the grip of his pistol then a half dozen sound kicks in the stomach and Etta was unconscious.

It was getting late and it was getting dark. Peter had likely heard everything go south through the wire Etta was wearing, but there was no way to get an FBI team there in time. So Neal picked Etta up and carried her to a cab, saying she was drunk when the driver asked.

Moz was at the apartment, trying to make his own wine, when Neal pounded on the door, Etta's limp, dripping body still in his arms.

"You see Neal…the tannins are much more pronounced and the body has a certain…" Moz began before the door had opened, stopping short when he saw his protégé unconscious and bleeding out.

"What happened?" he asked, dropping his wine glass and running circles searching for a paper towel.

"She tried to fence it just like we told her to and we got all the information we needed, but the mark didn't want to pay and decided to knock her out rather than hand over the money. We'll be able to convict them, I have video evidence, but she's down for the count for a while."

"Lay her down, let's take a look," Moz said quickly, clearing off the kitchen table and spreading the closest available garment, Neal's robe, across the glistening marble.

Neither of them had any medical skill. Neither one knew what they were looking for. But when Neal slit the fabric of her dress, fully aware he'd get an earful for ruining an Oscar de la Renta, he was truly stunned by the bruising already appearing on her porcelain skin.

"That's not good," he breathed.

"I think the technical term is bad," Moz added.

Neal shook his head, staring, for once in his life rendered speechless.

"You've called the suit right?"

Neal didn't answer.

"Right?"

"No. I just…I had to do something…not just…call someone…I…"

"Get her out of that dress and get the blood off and get her in bed. I'm assuming that even in your highly distracted state you have the faculties to do that – it's kind of your MO?" Moz added with more than a hint of acid.

"Yeah."

"I will call the suit."

"Thanks."

"She did great! We got an ID on him!" Peter said, a little too loudly, as he let himself in.

"Quiet."

Mozzie's abrupt rebuke caught Peter off guard. He'd mentioned that their asset was hurt, but Peter had assumed, entirely falsely, that if it was serious they would have gotten her to a hospital by now.

"You still have her here?"

Moz nodded.

"And you think there might be internal bleeding?"

"Based on a knowledge of medicine acquired exclusively from pre-Renaissance philosophy texts…yes."

"How did you…know what…I don't want to know…Just take me to her."

Never, not in all the years in the years since he'd started hunting the con, had Peter seen Neal act nurturing. His relationships tended to focus on expensive wine and no-consequences sex. Neal didn't do injuries or illnesses or vulnerability - except apparently he did.

Etta was slumped forward, her knees hugged in to her chest, wearing one of Neal's undershirts. Her already fair skin had a grayish cast and her long, fawn-colored hair was sweaty and unruly. A harsh line of bright red blood darkened her cheek. Neal had one hand resting gently on the back of her neck – with a wet washcloth held up against her skin – and a wineglass full of iridescent blue Gatorade in the other.

By anyone's guess he was being nurturing. And that caught Peter off guard for a second. Then Etta's enormous blue eyes caught sight of him and she stumbled up to her feet, loosing her balance – almost falling, until Neal caught her gently around the waist.

"What are you doing here Agent Burke?" she mumbled, her whole body slumping as Neal pulled her closer to him, her head falling against his chest and one arm going up to hold on to him.

"I came to check on you. Moz said you took a nasty hit."

"I'll be fine Agent Burke," Etta replied, "we have everything under…"

Then she broke off suddenly, her face registering pain for a split second before Neal firmly but gently pushed her back on the bed and shoved a stainless steel wastebasket into her lap. He gathered her hair in one hand, as she was violently sick.

"By my estimation this isn't having everything under control," Peter said.

"Not by a long shot," Mozzie interjected, waltzing in with a glass of wine in one hand and a phonebook in the other.

"I found a doctor that the mob doesn't know about," Moz said, waving his phonebook at Peter.

"Explain."

They'd already spent an hour arguing about why they couldn't take her to a hospital – and who to call to get the help they needed. Peter was tired and Neal looked like he was going to pass out any second. He'd let Etta curl up against him when she fell asleep, carrying her to the couch when they all mutually decided it was too awkward to sit in the bedroom, and Peter still couldn't get his head around this new side of his CI.

"We've been over this. Her uncle is still a free man. She's working for the FBI. If we take her to the hospital the mob will find out and trust me Peter, there's no quantity of FBI agents that will be able to stop the mob from killing her when they find out she's worked for us," Neal explained for what must have been the tenth time. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand – looking uncharacteristically young and vulnerable.

"So we let her die of potential internal bleeding instead?" Peter snapped – feeling an instant of guilt when he saw Neal's frustrated hurt expression.

"No. We find someone off the books…someone like…Basil Fyodorov. He's an old friend. Used to work with the Russian mob. Definitely won't inform to the Glasgow mob. Great choice," Mozzie suggested, again.

"How bout we try a slightly saner route," Peter put in, "I didn't remember before, but I think there's someone I could call."

Fyodorov and Sam showed up at the same time. Fyodorov was a tall, old, gangly Russian who looked as though he hadn't shaved in a week. He was wearing an expensive but ill-fitting suit with an outlandish tie. He didn't speak English and he smelled like vodka.

Sam was an ex-seal who'd been discharged after he lost a leg in Afghanistan. He was clean-shaven and respectably dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. He was a medic. He was good. Jones had made the introduction. And Peter trusted him.

Neal was asleep.

Poor kid had been up all night forging the documents Etta needed for the fence. Then up half the night with her. He was doing his best grabbing a few minutes of sleep when her fever and vomiting settled enough to let him.

"Could you wake her so I can take a look?" Sam asked calmly – while Fyodorov yelled something at Mozzie in Russian.

"Absolutely," Peter replied – leading Sam in and casting a concerned glance at the bickering criminals.

Peter roused Neal first and, when he saw Sam over Peter's shoulder, the CI quickly disentangled himself from Etta and got out of the way. Sam took Etta's pulse then repeated her name softly but firmly until she woke up for him.

"Etta? My name is Sam. I used to be a medic in the Navy. I'm gonna take care of anything that's wrong, alright?"

"Okay," Etta said, nodding.

"Now I'm gonna look over the bruising on your ribs and your abdomen…on a scale of one to ten…" Sam continued.

Peter pulled Neal aside as the medic worked.

"Go shower and change. I'll look after her. Not that with Sam around she needs much else in the looking after department. Get some food and then come back. You've had a rough night," Peter said.

"I…" Neal began to protest.

"I'll look after her."

Neal and Moz made their respective reentries just as Sam was explaining Etta's condition to Peter.

"There's no internal bleeding, just a lot of swelling. The fever seems like it's just in response to the shock and the pain, so far as I can tell. I put a butterfly closure on the cut on her head. But unfortunately there's not much else I can do: Gatorade and sleep and ibuprofen. She'll be better in a few weeks."

"Thanks for your help," Peter said.

"Call if anything about her condition changes and I will come check in tomorrow," Sam said, "I can let myself out."

Moz had more intriguing news.

And a puppy.

"Fyodorov says she needs physical contact with another living thing to keep her spirit balanced," he announced – holding a baby St. Bernard at arm's length like Simba in The Lion King.

"So you brought a dog?" Neal asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"He recommended it," Moz insisted, sitting the puppy on the comforter and letting it start nosing around in the sheets. For longer than seemed at all possible Neal and Peter just stared, but when the pudgy little ball of fur started trying to lick the cut on Etta's head clean Peter decided it was time to intervene.

He picked up the dog and handed it back to Moz.

"It looks like I'm not gonna be home for a while," he said, "I don't feel inclined to leave you two with sole charge of her. Since your next brilliant plan might involve rattlesnake venom…how bout you go return this…and tell El to come over…and bring dinner."

El and Moz returned – for some inexplicable reason with the puppy still in tow – about an hour later. It was closing in on eleven o'clock and El had packed the dinner she'd already made before this mess started and brought them all some much needed comfort food.

Neal and Peter and Moz ate while El took the puppy and sat with Etta, who was awake now but groggy and sick and in pain. While Moz went to go buy more wine (Peter still couldn't work out how Neal's little bald friend had independently gone through two bottles in an evening without appearing even remotely drunk) Peter took a moment to confront Neal about his apparent personality shift.

"You actually held her hair while she threw up," he said, trying to sound disinterested.

"You say that like it's shocking."

"It is."

"I've had girlfriends before."

"Neal I hate to say this so bluntly, but you're a sociopath. You do couture dresses and fancy dinners and nice lingerie. You don't do vomiting and crying."

"She reminds me of the only girl I ever actually dated."

"You actually dated…as in pre-con artist?"

"Pretty much."

"Tell me more."

"I was thirteen and she lived next door and I fell for her. And she was brilliant and gorgeous and…then the next year a week after our first date, on our third date, she got hit by a car and she died in my arms. The car was being driven by one of my dad's contacts – by one of the men who'd ruined my life once already."

"She…"

Before Peter could finish El came in…carrying the puppy in one hand and an empty wineglass for more Gatorade in the other.

"He needs to go out – he's fussing. We need more Gatorade and Etta's asking for Neal."

Peter took the puppy out with El. Leaving Neal and Etta to sort through whatever needed sorting. Neal perched tentatively on the edge of the bed at first – just watching. El had brought Etta some pajamas – they were too big, but a step up from Neal's shirts. She had on Peter's old bathrobe, one Neal had seen too many times when he'd gone over to the Burke's late to work on a case, and she held it around herself tightly.

"How you feeling?" Neal asked gently, brushing a strand of hair off her damp forehead and kissing her cheek.

"Hurts," she whispered.

"I know."

It was silent for an unnaturally long moment.

"Could you…maybe…" Etta began.

"What is it? Anything you need," Neal replied.

"The puppy helped," Etta said with half a smile.

"Contact actually did make you feel better? Or you want a pudgy ball of fluff back? Cause I can help with contact…not so much with the actual puppy…"

"Contact actually did make me feel better. Kept me anchored. Made me feel safe. He's a nice dog. But you're nicer."

"I'm glad I beat the dog," he said, slipping under the blankets beside her and gently cradling her against his chest.

They lay like that for a long time, for a while feeling like maybe everything was going to be okay. Then Etta sat up abruptly, yelping at the pain.

"What's wrong?" Neal asked, sitting up with her, panic starting to cloud his thoughts already. She couldn't die. She couldn't.

"I need to throw up again," Etta mumbled, rubbing her eyes, suddenly look ten years younger, suddenly looking no older than that old girlfriend who'd died in his arms.

"You're okay," Neal murmured, grabbing the wastebasket for her and rubbing her back. She was mostly vomiting bile, and Neal knew how much that hurt, not to mention the strands of blood, which spoke to the immense trauma she'd suffered. When she was done Neal left for a moment – loath to let her out of his sight and came back with a wet washcloth and more Gatorade.

"Thanks," she said taking the washcloth but trying to wave off the fluids.

"You need to drink something," Neal insisted – just as Peter and El walked in.

"Have you ever seen him like this before?" El asked, holding the dog under one arm.

"Not once. It doesn't exist in his file. And this isn't an act. I know when he's playing a game, and he isn't," Peter replied.

"He really likes this girl," El murmured.

"Yeah. It's not like Kate or Sarah…not that he didn't love them…but…"

And as Peter finished he watched the younger man gently press a glass of Gatorade into Etta's hand, climb out of bed and come toward them.

"How's she doing?" El asked.

"Same," Neal replied, taking the dog from her arms, "She wants the puppy back."

"You're joking?" Peter insisted.

"Nope. The warmth makes her feel better – or at least so she tells me," Neal raised his free hand in surrender, "don't shoot the messenger."

"Just make sure it doesn't start licking her cut again!" Peter called as Neal retreated with the dog in tow.

Monday morning came faster than seemed possible. The time between Etta's injury on Thursday night and that morning seemed to pass in lurches and lulls. And when Neal woke up with Etta's body limp in his arms – still fully dressed and cradling both her and the dog against him – it took him a few moments to get his bearings. Moz was coming to get the dog. And Neal had to go to work. But he had no notion of what to do with Etta while he left. He wasn't leaving her with Moz. That was for sure – not when Mozzie's version of medicine included absinthe and Ouija boards.

He grabbed his phone off the bedside table and dialed Peter, who picked up after only one ring.

There was a tinge of panic in his voice when the older man asked, "What do you need?"

"Don't worry, she's fine, still stable," Neal began, "But…"  
"You don't know what to do with her? You can't leave her and you're looking for a solution?" Peter suggested.

"Exactly."

"Bring her in. I'll pay for a cab for you two and we'll get a couple blankets on a couch in a conference room. We can check on her as often as Sam says is necessary. And she can get the rest she needs."

"Thanks Peter," Neal said, and he went to hang up before Peter interrupted him.

"Just do make sure she's sufficiently clothed. I've got a new kid in from Quantico and the last thing he needs is an attractive, scantily dressed asset distracting him."

"Will do."

Etta was more stable on her feet now, but even getting down the stairs and into a cab left her tired and sick. Once Neal got her to the office she slept hard for a few hours, then woke up and came to get him. Getting to his desk was more activity than she should have tried. And when she made it to him she looked like she might pass out any second. Neal sat her down, stroking her hair and kneeling down in front of her.

"What's wrong?" he asked, noticing the tears staining her cheeks, "What hurts?"

"It's not that."

"What's wrong? Etta, please!"

"I can't do this Neal."

"I know being sick's no fun Etta but…"

"No I don't mean being hurt I mean this…the FBI…us."

Neal just stared, dumbfounded.

"Sam says I'll be okay to travel in another three days. I'm gonna stay with Diana until then and I'm flying to a new job in with Wells Fargo, in San Fransisco."

"But…"

"Don't ask if I love you. I do. You know I do."

"Then…"

"Cause I can't do it. I can't have the FBI everywhere. I can't have the danger, the uncertainty. I can't go to the office and focus thinking that while I'm trying to negotiate a new corporate strategy you might laying dead in a ditch somewhere."

"It's the White Collar division Etta. I…"

"That's what you said when you recruited me. And look where it got us."

And as much as he wanted to, Neal couldn't think of a comeback for that.


End file.
